


Bullets Catch in His Teeth

by withthekeyisking



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Feels, BAMF Dick Grayson, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Dick Grayson Has Issues, Dick Grayson Week, Dick Grayson Weekend, Dick Grayson is Not Adopted, Foster Care, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Jason Todd Has a Crush, Jason Todd is Red Hood, M/M, Paramedic Dick Grayson, Racism, Romani Dick Grayson, Roy Harper is a Good Bro, Sex Pollen, Trust Issues, antidote, but don't we all, but that's ok because so does dick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23548123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Dick Grayson is not Robin, or Nightwing, or Batman. He wasn't taken in by Bruce Wayne and trained to be a vigilante, trained to lead teams of heroes and take down bad guys and swing across rooftops.He still manages to help people.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 89
Kudos: 563
Collections: Dick Grayson Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Paradise_ by Coldplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dick Grayson Week 2020 Day 1: Robins Raised Together | Age Reversal | **Never Adopted**
> 
> Okayyyyy soooooo this story really got away from me. Like, _really_ got away from me. It was supposed to be 6,000 words max but then I got invested in this AU and Dick's backstory here and I just wasn't gonna finish this beast in time for today, not with all the other stuff going on in life. So expect another chapter <3
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

There are moments in everyone's lives where there's something they just _know_ isn't something they should do. Like that feeling you get deep in your gut when you're standing on the edge of a cliff, the feeling that tells you to step back before you fall.

Dick Grayson gets that feeling a lot.

He just has a tendency to ignore it.

"Are you out of your mind?" his partner Ryan yells, gesturing wildly like he has a tendency to do. Dick tracks the motions out of the corner of his eye but doesn't look away from the road; they're going too fast for him to risk it. "Have you gone actually batshit?"

"Jury's still out," he quips, grinning a little. He turns the wheel quickly, pulling them onto a side street, knowing a shortcut to their destination. Ryan shrieks, the sound melding momentarily with the sirens in the distance, and Dick lets out a breathless laugh.

"Grayson, I'm begging you," Ryan says when they're no longer in danger of turning on their side. "Leave this one alone. It's too dangerous, and it's not your job to save everyone!"

Dick's smile turns wry, and he doesn't reply. He knows he can't save everyone; he's learned that the hard way over the course of his life. He knows the world will keep turning and the birds will keep chirping and waterfalls will continue to flow if he takes a breath and steps back. If a few people who don't deserve to die do it anyway.

But Ryan's wrong about one thing: he can't save everyone, but it's his job to _try._

They arrive at the scene while there are bullets still flying. Dick's out of the ambulance the moment it pulls to a stop, his large first aid kit grasped tightly in his hand. He turns back around and meets Ryan's wide-eyed stare; he looks afraid, and Dick can't blame him. They see a lot of horrible shit in Gotham, especially in their profession, but there's a difference between all of that and being at the site of a gang fight while it's still going on.

"Stay here," Dick says firmly, and he sees the relief on his partner's face, and then the guilt at feeling relieved. But Dick doesn't have time to handle that at the moment, not like he usually would, so he shuts the door and whirls around to face the scene, searching for the one he's here for.

It's dark, the night only lit up by the flashes of gunfire and cloudy moonlight far above, and the air is filled with the shouts of violent men. Dick scans everything with narrowed eyes, trying to find the one that the call came in about, and his eyes light up when he sees the man lying on the ground, distinct mustache and all, and starts to race over to him.

He stays low and alert, moving quickly towards his patient but keeping an eye on the trouble surrounding him as well. It seems to be drawing to a close, the Red Hood's gang overtaking Carmine Falcone's men, but it's still very dangerous territory, and a stray bullet could hit him at any second.

He doesn't do this job for the adrenaline rush, but it's certainly a side effect.

Dick reaches the man and gets to work, tuning out the rest of the world around him. He's unconscious, so the first thing Dick does is take his penlight and pry open his eyelids, checking the pupils' response to light. They dilate the way they should and neither of them are blown, so Dick's satisfied for the moment that there's no head injury.

Next step is finding whatever wound has put him out of commission. His clothing is dark, masking any obvious bloody spots, so Dick feels his way down, starting at the neck and pressing slowly down to the abdomen, fingers branching out and— _there._

Dick rips open the wet, sticky cloth of the man's shirt, getting his first look at the pair of gunshot wounds on his stomach, and grimaces for a second. He pulls his penlight back out and sticks it between his teeth, helping him actually see what he's doing. It's not a pretty sight; the wounds have clearly been bleeding for a little while. Probably passed out from blood loss.

He takes his stethoscope from around his neck and presses it to the man's heart, closing his eyes to help hear better. The beats are sluggish, far slower than they should be, but even—still alive, and going to stay that way if Dick has anything to say about it.

He yanks the zipper of his first aid kit open with one hand and removes the stethoscope from his ears with the other, then digs around inside for what he needs. Materials laid out, he gets his hands under the man's body and tilts him up, checking for exit wounds. He finds nothing; the bullets are still inside.

Well, he knows how to perform field surgery, so it seems that's what he's going to have to do.

Dick cleans the wound sites with alcohol wipes and then uses a scalpel to open the wounds just a bit, enough to give him room to work. He grabs two pairs of clamps, using one to keep the first wound site open the amount he wants, and then inserts the others, moving slowly to find the bullet.

"Yes!" he hisses around the penlight, nothing more than a garbled noise, when he feels his tool come in contact with the bullet, then slowly extracts it. The moment he does, he tosses the clamps aside and rips open a sutures packet, beginning the process of stitching the wound up. There might be internal bleeding, but the doctors at Gotham General can check for that when they get there; Dick's job for the moment is to keep his patient alive.

He's in the middle of stitching the wound closed when he registers footsteps approaching him. It makes him realize that gunfire has ceased around him, the street strangely silent after such big activity. Dick's heart speeds up, slight fear tingling in his chest as an unknown comes closer to him. Gangsters tend to shoot first and ask questions later; they might just put a bullet in his head before finishing the job with the man he's trying to save.

Combat boots step into Dick's field of vision. "Do you know who that is?" a modulated voice asks him.

Dick feels some of the tension ease from his chest; Red Hood doesn't kill innocent civilians. He's not going to shoot a random paramedic.

Unable to answer with the penlight still clenched between his teeth, he nods, and doesn't stop working. Gunshot wounds are kind of time sensitive, after all. He can't stop just because a dangerous semi-vigilante is standing over him.

There's a click, and then a bright light comes from above him, aiming at the injured man's chest. Surprised, Dick's head jerks up, and he sees the Red Hood, guns strapped to his thighs and all, holding a flashlight and illuminating the entirety of the wound sight and then some for Dick.

Dick smiles around the penlight and then spits it out, looking back down to continue stitching. Red Hood's flashlight provides a lot more light than Dick's thin pen, and it's immensely helpful.

"Thanks," he says. "I was gonna start drooling around that thing soon, and wouldn't _that_ be awkward?"

"What are you doing here?" Red Hood asks, and Dick cocks an eyebrow.

"I would kinda hope that's obvious."

"You wandered into an active gun fight," Red Hood says, voice colored by irritation, "to save this low-life asshole."

Dick considers the words—he didn't _wander—_ and then dips his head into a nod. Suddenly, he's worried that Red Hood is going to shoot his patient in the head and ruin all his good work. This vigilante has never made a secret of his proclivity for killing—hell, his introduction to Gotham sure showed _that—_ and it's clear that he doesn't consider this man worth saving.

"Yes, I did," he says evenly. He finishes the sutures and ties them off, grabbing once more for the pair of clamps. He rubs an alcohol wipe over them in case they touched something dirty when he tossed them aside—better safe than sorry when it comes to the human body—and then begins the process all over again for the second gunshot wound.

"Why?" Red Hood snaps. "This guy isn't worth your life. He's not worth _anybody's_ lives."

Dick's sure an argument could be made against that, but he doesn't have one. Besides, he's not doing this because he thinks this man in particular deserves to live more than he does. That's absurd. No, he's here for a purpose.

"Maybe," Dick agrees. "But if you know who this guy is, then you know in three days he's set to testify before a grand jury as a key witness in the case against Falcone."

Red Hood makes a noise that Dick thinks is a snort, but it's hard to tell through the helmet's voice modulator. "You think this guy is going to get Carmine Falcone convicted?" he asks incredulously. "Men like Falcone don't get put away, and this shit-stain of a man—" he kicks the unconscious man lightly with his foot, jostling Dick's work, and Dick bares his teeth angrily. "—doesn't deserve the deal he's gonna get from testifying."

Dick rolls his eyes. He adjusts the clamps and slowly starts inserting the second one again, far more carefully this time in case Red Hood moving the man had shifted the position of the bullet. He feels his instrument touch it soon enough, and lets out a breath, feeling relieved when he pulls the bullet out with minimal bleeding.

"That's short-sighted," Dick tells Red Hood. "You're right, Falcone will probably be able to buy his way into a _far_ shorter sentence than he deserves, or will _maybe_ even find a way to escape imprisonment entirely. But this case isn't just against Falcone himself, it's against all his lieutenants and underlings, and they _absolutely_ will not be escaping unscathed. With the evidence that's been collected and this _shit-stain's_ testimony, they're all likely to get twenty-five-to-life.

"And maybe that doesn't sound important to you, maybe you think you should just put a bullet in each of them and call it a day, but then where does it end? It's just a cycle of violence, never-ending and vicious. Between you and all of the other Bats and all the costumed villains this city pumps out. It's always about all of _you,_ games bigger than all of us. Putting away Falcone for a few years and his men for a _long_ time...it _matters,_ don't you get that? It's something the city can do for itself, not something we have to count on a man with a fancy helmet to do for us."

Dick takes a breath and starts his sutures.

"The people who work for Falcone are regular people. They're not the Joker or Two-Face or any of those crazies. So we've _got this,_ okay? The case against Falcone is extremely solid. I'm not saying it's going to get everyone. But don't we deserve the chance to _try?"_

Red Hood doesn't say anything in response, and Dick lets the silence remain.

"I'm not a Bat," Red Hood says eventually.

Dick glances up at the red bat on the man's chest and smiles. "Sure."

He finishes the sutures and cleans over both wounds again, then applies temporary bandages. He pulls his stethoscope back on and places it over the man's heart, listening, and can't help but smile when he hears that the beat is more powerful than it was when he started, less sluggish. The guy's going to live.

Dick looks over his shoulder towards where the ambulance is parked. "Ryan!" he calls out to his partner, who is still sitting in the passenger seat. "Come on!"

Ryan startles slightly, and Dick can see him looking at Red Hood nervously, but the man does slide over to the driver's seat and turn on the car, driving slowly closer to Dick's position.

"You did well," Red Hood tells him, gesturing towards the unconscious man's stomach. Dick grins at him.

"Thanks!"

"Where'd you learn field surgery? I didn't think paramedic training was that intensive."

Dick's smile turns towards a grimace, and is saved from answering when Ryan reaches their side, bringing the wheeled stretcher out of the back and lining it up parallel with the unconscious man's body. Red Hood takes a few steps back, and Dick thinks that has more to do with the anxious glances Ryan keeps giving him than an actual need to give them space.

Ryan crouches by the man's feet as Dick zips up the first aid kit and then settles by his head. He slides his hands under the man's shoulders and looks up to Ryan, who has his hands resting on the man's ankles.

"Okay, ready to lift?" he asks, and Ryan nods, turning his attention away from the gun-toting vigilante and towards his job.

Dick pushes up on the man's shoulders, slowly moving him into an upright position, and then wraps his arms securely around the man's middle. He adjusts his feet to be ready for rising, and then looks back to his partner.

"On three, one, two, three."

They stand in unison and then move one step over, moving him onto the wheeled stretcher. Dick slowly loosens his grip and lowers the man back into a horizontal position, Ryan lifting the bar on the side as he does. They begin strapping the man down, this part so familiar that they move around each other effortlessly, and though Dick can no longer see the Red Hood, he can feel his presence.

"Ready to go up?" Dick asks, and Ryan calls an affirmative, so Dick counts again and they rise the stretcher, moving towards the back of the ambulance, and then slide it inside, securing it in place.

By the time they've closed the doors and Dick turns back around, the vigilante is gone.

* * *

When Dick is nine years old, his parents die.

It sounds so simple when you say it like that, like they just _died._ It sounds peaceful and normal. People die all the time, after all. It's sad, but he's not the only one who's gone through it. Others can sympathize with losing someone you love.

But most people don't watch their loved ones plummet three stories to the ground. They don't watch uselessly as the ones who raised them _smack_ against the ground, bodies twisting in ways bodies shouldn't twist.

Most people don't have to face the fact that their family members were murdered, and that maybe they could've done something to stop it.

After it happens, they tell him he's in shock. They say that the numb static in his brain and the emptiness in his heart will fade with some time. But Dick doesn't want any of it to fade, because he has a feeling that what comes after is far worse.

He follows pliantly along when a policeman approaches him and leads him towards a car, and remains silent during the drive, staring out the window. Gotham is dark and rainy past the window, and from what Dick's heard about the city, he doesn't think that's all that unusual.

Dick's never been to Gotham before. Whenever that happens, whenever they visit somewhere that is a brand new place to him, his parents would always take him exploring for a few hours, just to see new things and meet new people. They were going to do that the next morning. That's not going to happen now. Dick has to see Gotham alone.

When they eventually pull to a stop, the building they're in front of has a large sign on the front. Dick doesn't recognize a lot of the words, but he knows _Orphanage,_ and it makes a lead ball settle in Dick's gut. He's an orphan now.

The policeman knocks on the door. The woman who answers is in her late fifties with long gray hair and a severe frown on her face, looking expectantly at the policeman.

"G'd'evenin', ma'am," he greets, removing his hat and running a hand through his hair to push it back. "I'm Officer Morrison, and this—" he puts his hand on Dick's shoulder, "—is Dick Grayson. His parents just died."

 _Just died._ It sounds so simple.

The woman turns her gaze towards Dick, and her frown seems to deepen as she takes all of him in. His Flying Grayson uniform, the policeman's jacket draped around his shoulders, the blue of his eyes, the black of his hair, and the tone of his skin. Dick feels uneasy under the attention, shifting in discomfort.

"We're all full," the woman tells the policeman, shaking her head. "We're more than full, we've got kids coming out of our _ears._ He can't stay here."

Officer Morrison frowns. "What? Just for a few nights—"

"No," the woman interrupts, and she's already stepping back, shifting to close the door. "We don't have space for him."

The door shuts. The policeman stands there for a moment, blinking incredulously. Dick stares up at him, wondering what the next step is, and the man looks down with a grimace.

"Right," he sighs. "Well."

He ushers Dick back to the car and then they're driving again. Officer Morrison is chewing on his lip, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, and the clear agitation from a policeman is amping up Dick's own anxiety.

The next place they pull up to makes Dick think of a prison, with high walls and bars on windows, and it makes his mouth go dry. What is this place? And why is he ending up here?

"Just for a few nights," Officer Morrison tells him, stepping out of the car. "Just until we figure something out. Okay?"

Dick can only nod, not understanding. The policeman looks uncomfortable, maybe a little guilty, as he leads Dick into the building, through a security check, into an office. The policeman talks to the man in the office, but they talk quickly and quietly enough that Dick only picks up every few words, and he wraps his arms around himself for some attempt at comfort.

He doesn't like this place, with its plain walls and cold air and empty faces. It's so different from the circus that Dick almost feels whiplash, and suddenly he's desperately sad, desperate for something familiar.

But even Officer Morrison is leaving him, offering Dick one last squeeze on his shoulder before departing, putting him in the care of these strange, too-sharp people. Dick wonders if all of Gotham is like this, or he's just lucky enough to find ones like this on his first try.

He doesn't like the way the guards are looking at him, the way they don't give him privacy when he's told he has to change out of his uniform. They give him a green t-shirt a few sizes too big that says _Gotham_ in large letters and a pair of pants that are big enough that he has to roll up the cuffs a few times to keep from tripping on them. Then they lead him to a room with a pair of bunkbeds, one kid already lying on the top and watching Dick enter with dark eyes.

The guard who escorted him sneers with a disgusting glint in his eyes and says, "Welcome to the youth center," and then leaves him there.

Dick hears the door lock behind him.

The next night, Dick makes his escape. It's some of the worst twenty-four hours of his life, and he refuses to go through it again. So he leaves, climbing out and onto the rooftops of Gotham. It's not too hard to get around, really, not with his training, and he makes it a few blocks before he has to pause, crouching down to sit against a roof access doorway. It's cold out, and the chill is really starting to seep into his bones through his borrowed clothes. He's shoeless and in a t-shirt, and he knows he has to get inside somewhere soon.

But he doesn't know where to go. He wants to find his way back to the circus, beg Haly to tell the police about the man who sabotaged the wires because they told him he was in shock when he said this wasn't an accident, but Haly can confirm it, can help find justice for his parents.

The problem is that he has no clue which way the circus is from his current location. All of Gotham looks the same, gothic buildings and dark skies and towering gargoyles.

Dick spends the second night with dead parents on that rooftop, arms wrapped around his legs, curled up to try to hide from the rain.

The next morning, Dick wakes up to a growling stomach and knows he has to find food somewhere. He climbs down from the roof, using the not-collapsed parts of a fire escape when he can and just using the brick wall when he can't.

The ground of the alleyway he ends up in hurts his bare feet, and he grimaces down at them. He has no clue how to get shoes, just like he doesn't know how to get food. He wants someone to help him, but he's terrified that anyone he talks to will force him back to the awful youth center with all those horrible people that take and take and don't seem to care about Dick's tears.

He pushes it to the back of his mind, pushes the desire for a hug from his mama away, and peers out of the alley. Everyone is going about their lives, walking quickly with ducked heads and expressions on their faces that aren't welcoming.

Across the street is a small bodega, with a stand of fresh fruits outside it, all listed with their prices. Dick's mouth waters, his stomach growls, and he swallows anxiously. Is he really contemplating stealing? The people who own that little shop are counting on the sales made from their produce to live. Mama and papa taught Dick that stealing is wrong, that no one has the right to take from someone else.

But mama and papa are dead, and Dick is hungry.

He attracts some odd glances as he hesitantly exits the alley and rushes across the street, but everyone goes back to whatever they were doing soon enough, not caring overly much about the young boy in the ratty too-big clothes and no shoes.

His hesitation grows as he stands in front of the bodega, staring at the fresh mangos and grapefruits and strawberries that look like the most delicious things Dick's ever seen. He wants them so badly. And what's a few dollars? That won't affect the owners of the store too much. It's just a couple pieces of fruit.

The bodega door opens with the jingle of a bell, and a very pregnant woman stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, an eyebrow raised at Dick. Dick can do nothing but stare back, eyes wide, unsure what to do now.

"You know," the woman says, "usually if a thief tries to steal from us, they don't make themselves as obvious as you have. You know you've been standing and staring for over a minute now?"

"I-I'm sorry," Dick stutters out. "I didn't mean—I—"

"Where'd you come from?" the woman asks, cocking her head. Dick can see her scanning him, taking in his ratty clothing, his lack of shoes, the blue of his eyes, the black of his hair, and the tone of his skin. Her brow furrows, and Dick wonders if this is where she tells him to leave like the woman at the orphanage. He wonders what it is about him that makes that happen. Wonders about the words one of the guards at the youth center called him, and if that has anything to do with it.

"I'm sorry," Dick says again, afraid that if he answers her question she'll send him back there instead of just telling him to leave.

The woman sighs, something sad in her eyes, and then pushes back inside the store, holding the door open.

"Well come on," she says, nodding inside. "My feet are killing me; I'd rather not keep standing here all day."

Dick hesitates, glancing up and down the street, and then slowly does as he's told, inching past her. It's warm inside the store, the kind of stale warm that tells you there's no air conditioner, but it feels like their trailer back at the circus, so it makes him smile just a little.

The smile fades just as quickly as it arrived, a terrible sadness filling him.

There's a teenager sitting behind the counter, and he cocks an eyebrow when he sees Dick trailing after the woman, but he doesn't comment. The woman leads Dick around the counter and through a door and up a steep staircase. Dick doesn't ask where they're going or what she's planning on doing; she's already far better than everyone he's met so far, and he wants that to last as long as it can.

They enter an apartment, small but well looked after. They enter into the main living area of it and there's a man sitting on the couch, head tipped back, snoring lightly. Dick sees the woman roll her eyes and then keep walking, bringing Dick into a comfortable kitchen.

"Sit," she tells him, pointing to the kitchen table, and Dick does as he's told, watching her grab something from the fridge and then a few others things from cabinets.

"Do you..." he begins hesitantly. "Um, do you need any help?"

The woman glances over at him, a smile curving her lips. "Nice manners, but no. Thank you."

She finishes making what Dick can see is a pair of sandwiches—peanut butter and jelly—and then places one of them in front of Dick along with a glass of water before sitting across from him and beginning to eat the other sandwich.

Dick sits there with wide eyes for a moment before digging in, scarfing the food down. He can feel her watching him but it doesn't feel mean, so he eats quickly and quietly and then drinks the water before sitting back and looking back at her.

"What's your name?" she asks him.

"Dick," he answers, hands twisting in his lap. If he tells her about the youth center, will she send him back there? She's been very nice so far, especially to a boy that was planning to steal from her. He doesn't want that kindness to end.

"Nice to meet you," she says, smiling gently. "I'm Lyra. Can I ask why you were out dressed like that?" She nods towards his clothes.

Dick grimaces. "I..." He falls quiet, but _Lyra_ waits patiently, not looking irritated. Dick takes a deep breath. "This is all they gave me," he says. "At the...at the you center."

Lyra's expression twists, and Dick feels fear clench his chest for all of five second before she's saying, "God, that awful place. _Youth center_ my ass. It's a glorified juvenile facility, except they don't care whether or not someone's done a single thing wrong."

She looks him over again, more intense this time like there's something else she's looking for.

She spots the finger-shaped bruises around Dick's wrists.

Her gaze softens, sad and gentle.

"Would you like to stay here with me, Dick?" she asks, and Dick's nodding before he realizes there are tears in his eyes.

* * *

Dick has Saturdays off, so he lets himself sleep in and wake naturally. He makes breakfast, does some laundry, goes to the gym, takes a shower, reads on the couch, watches the pilot of a TV show Ryan said he'd like.

He's terribly, terribly _bored._

Dick likes his job. The constant motion of it, the ability to help people, the way it captures his focus wholly like rarely anything can. He likes how it allows him to meet so many people and really see every crevice of the city he's spent eighteen years of his life in. He likes that it makes him feel so much less alone than he does on his off hours.

He has friends. Really, he does. His mom always said he could befriend just about anyone, and she wasn't wrong; Dick's excellent at making friends, at bringing people together, at getting along with all types of individuals. Dick can fit in anywhere. He's good at that, molding himself to something and sticking with it, finding some amount of joy in each new place and new thing he tries.

So really, he has tons of friends. Many of whom he loves dearly, and loves spending time with.

But at the end of the day, in the hours he spends not working, a majority of them he spends alone. And somehow he prefers that, even as he longs to be out there, connecting with other people.

His old therapist would probably say something about trust issues and abandonment issues and blah blah blah...

Dick gets up from the couch and shakes his head at himself. He's not one to wallow or mope, so he heads into his bedroom and gets dressed for the actually-outside world, and then heads out.

He walks towards the park and strolls through it aimlessly, letting his spotify play random songs through his headphones. After a little bit his stomach protests, so he makes his way back towards his apartment building, and then a little past it, down to the café that he loves.

He goes there often enough that they know him, and will even recognize a few of his friends that he's gone there with before. He likes how cozy it feels, how _homey,_ which can be a rarity in Gotham. He'll take it where he can find it, and it's certainly a perk that they make genuinely good food.

The girl behind the counter, Jamie, smiles at him when he reaches the front of the line. "Hi, Dick! Trying somethin' new today, or do you want your usual?"

Dick smiles back. "Surprise me."

He's no sooner turned away from the counter, enjoying her amused huff, when he hears someone else call out, "Hey, Dick!"

He turns around, and his eyebrows shoot up when he sees who's calling him. He immediately makes his way over to the familiar face, clasping his friend on the shoulder with a grin.

"Roy Harper, as I live and breathe; what are you doing in Gotham?"

"Helping Oliver out with something," the redhead answers vaguely, which isn't unusual; for all that Roy is extremely open about his personal life with Dick, he's very tight-lipped about anything resembling work. Dick has a theory, of course, but it's not his place to push for information Roy isn't ready to give.

He takes note of the man sitting across from Roy, then, and finds the guy looking at him slightly wide-eyed. He wipes it off pretty quickly after he notices Dick looking back, and smiles politely at him. Dick returns the look, a little more warm, and then looks back at Roy.

"And you didn't _call?"_ Dick asks in mock offense, pulling an eye roll out of his friend. "Jeez, Roy, I literally live down the block from here."

"I know," Roy snorts. "I've crashed at your place before, you're the reason I even knew this café exists at all. I haven't seen my friend here in a bit and I thought he might like it."

Once more, Dick looks to the other man. He's handsome, Dick notes. Broad shoulders, obviously tall, gorgeous blue-green eyes, a stylish white streak in the front of his hair, and the way his t-shirt clings slightly to his chest under his open leather jacket tells Dick all he needs to know about the state of his body.

(The answer is quite fit, and Dick is certainly not mad about it.)

"Hi," Dick greets, offering his hand to shake. "I'm Dick, as you probably heard Roy shout across the room."

"Jason," the man replies, deep and smooth, and shakes Dick's hand. There's something in the way he's looking at him that Dick isn't quite sure about, something almost _watchful,_ but he pushes it from his mind; they've just met, it's nothing important. Besides, if Jason here is Roy's friend, then Jason's safe. "Nice to meet you."

"You too," Dick says, smiling. "I—"

"Dick, your order's ready!" Jamie calls, drawing Dick's attention, and then Roy's clasping Dick on the shoulder and getting to his feet.

"We've actually gotta go, Dickie, but I swear I'll come see you before I leave town, okay?"

"Pinky promise?" Dick drawls, and Roy snorts, but does offer his pinky.

"You and my daughter, I swear..."

They're gone soon after, with one final wave and lingering look from Jason, and so Dick grabs his food and takes their table, digging in to whatever he's been given today.

Dick likes Roy. They've known each other almost eight years now, on and off; Dick had been visiting a friend at a rehab facility, and Roy had been a patient there, bored out of his mind and ready to claw his own eyes out. They'd become fast friends, probably faster than is usual for a druggie and random visitor, but Roy had a sharp wit and cared about people, and Dick's always been weak for things like that, both in romantic partners _and_ friends.

Now, any time Roy is in Gotham or Dick is in Star, they hang out, and keep in contact between then. Roy's daughter is the cutest little gremlin, and he wishes they lived in the same city just so he could have an excuse to babysit her all the time.

His phone rings, then, interrupting the music he started playing, and he glances down at the screen.

He recognizes the number, body going stiff for a moment, and then he pushes the _Decline Call_ button, completely uninterested in what his ex has to say. As if the guy hadn't given him enough problems while they were together.

Dick tries to push it out of his mind and enjoy his food, but it tastes stale and flavorless now. He gives up after a few more bites and leaves, already taking out his phone to text his boss Allyssa; maybe she'll let him slide into another shift today, or even just desk work at the office if she can't; he just wants something to do.

Allyssa gets back to him almost immediately: _You're a workoholic, Grayson. But yea, I have an open slot you can fill._

Dick smiles, letting out a relieved breath, and heads back to his apartment to get changed for work.

Seven hours later has Dick returning to his apartment, exhausted and feeling all the better for it. It's late by this point, so he changes into comfy clothing, makes himself dinner, and then goes to lie down to maybe get a full night's sleep.

But when he steps into his bedroom, he sees a figure standing by the window, illuminated faintly by the moonlight. Dick drops the bowl of pasta in his hand in surprise, sucking in a sharp breath, and feels himself beginning to shift into a fighting stance before the figure takes a step forward, allowing the light to gleam off the red helmet, letting Dick know who it is.

Not that knowing his intruder is the Red Hood calms him all that much, of course.

He does shift back into just standing, though, trying to remind his racing heart that Red Hood does _not_ kill innocent civilians, so he doesn't need to be afraid. Everything is going to be alright.

"Way to scare a guy," he says, pulling on a joking tone. "There something I can help you with?"

"I had a question for you," Red Hood says. Through the voice modulator and the darkness of the room, it comes out very menacing. "How did you know?"

"Know what?"

Red Hood walks forward again, crowding Dick against the wall in a way that feels _extremely_ threatening. Now Dick knows how to handle himself (one of his foster fathers certainly made sure of it), but even with that training, he doesn't know if he could fight the Red Hood off, especially not when the vigilante currently has two guns and Dick is weaponless. Of course, he could make a grab for one of the guns, but he'd have to move fast...

"How did you know about the case against Falcone? You knew exactly who that man you were saving was and that he was going to be testifying, you knew what evidence the police had against Falcone, and you sounded absolutely positive about what the outcome of the case would be, as if you'd truly seen all the information and deemed it solid. So I want to know _how."_

Dick reacts on instinct when Red Hood puts his hand in the center of his chest, shoving him the last few inches to the wall. He grabs ahold of the taller man's wrist, twisting it—and thus his arm—to the side, and brings his knee up to hit him in the groin. But Red Hood is already adjusting for the hold Dick's put on his arm, and he catches Dick's knee in a large hand, shoving it back down.

Red Hood starts to swing a punch with his free hand, but Dick ducks under it, using Red Hood's open side to twirl out to get away from the wall, sliding one of the vigilante's handguns out of its holster as he goes. He relinquishes his grip on Red Hood's wrist to put some space between them, and aims his stolen gun at the center of his chest to make sure he doesn't try to approach again.

"You know this really doesn't make you look innocent," Red Hood snaps at him, and Dick huffs a laugh, breathing a little heavily from the unexpected fight.

"You shoved me against a wall! I reacted to the threat, you can't blame me for that."

"I can blame you for being shady as hell," Red Hood shoots back. "What I want to know is _why_ you're dirty. It's not like you're—"

"Woah, woah, woah!" Dick interrupts incredulously. "Dirty? You think I'm _dirty?_ I'm a paramedic! It's not exactly a profession that has people lining up to _buy_ my loyalty! What could they possibly get out of that?"

"I don't know," Red Hood admits, but he still sounds forceful and accusatory. "But you need to explain how you have all of that confidential information. And this apartment is nice, nicer than a paramedic can afford on twenty bucks an hour."

Dick feels a headache coming on. He lowers the gun and turns it around to offer it back to its owner; he never flicked off the safety.

"You want some tea? I'm going to make some tea," Dick tells him, and then turns on his heels, going back out into the kitchen. He can hear Red Hood follow him, nearly silent despite how big he is, but the man doesn't manage to avoid Dick's squeaky floorboard in the hallway from his bedroom; the landlord had offered to fix it, but Dick had turned him down.

Always good to have a warning system in place. Another lesson imparted on him from dear old foster dad.

Dick grabs his kettle and fills it, then sets it on the stove to boil. When he turns back around, he sees the vigilante watching him from the other side of the kitchen island. Dick almost wishes the helmet wasn't there—he's pretty good at reading people, and sure he can still see Red Hood's body language as a whole, but faces always give the most away, whether or not people have good poker faces.

"I can afford this apartment," Dick says levelly, "because someone I used to know died a few years back, and he left me a good amount of money. I use just a small portion of it each month to help me afford this place with my salary, _and_ my landlord gives me a small discount on rent because his daughter was a paramedic before she was in an accident, so he holds fondness for the profession."

Red Hood takes that all in silently, and then asks, "And what about the Falcone case information?"

"I have friends on the police force, one of whom is working the Falcone case and has a tendency to rant with people he trusts when he's drunk. He knows I can keep a secret. I know a lot about a lot of cases, actually. And I've done nothing with the information except allow it to help me save more lives."

The kettle starts to whistle, so Dick switches off the burner and grabs two teabags, setting up a cup for himself and a cup for Red Hood. He slides one across the island when it's done, and holds his own cup in his hands, enjoying the warmth seeping into his skin.

"I'm not a bad person," Dick tells the vigilante softly. "And I think you know that."

Red Hood looks down at the cup in front of him in a way that seems thoughtful, and it's only in that moment that Dick realizes the man would have to remove his helmet in order to drink the tea.

"I, uh," Dick stutters, heat rising to his cheeks. Wow, way to look like you're trying to make him reveal himself, Grayson. "I did _not_ think this part through. Sorry."

"I have another mask," Red Hood tells him, the tone almost _wry,_ and Dick doesn't have time to ask what he means before the vigilante is reaching up to his head with both hands. He must find what he's looking for, because there's a click and a hiss, and then the helmet is being removed.

And Dick has to laugh, because covering his eyes underneath the full-head mask, is another mask, a red domino this time. Red Hood crooks a smile back at him, and then picks up the tea, blowing on it before taking a sip.

Dick can't help the way his eyes scan over the slightly revealed face, taking in the little details he can see, and he pauses when he looks at Red Hood's hair. White streak, right there at the front.

Easily a coincidence, really. Dyeing just parts of your hair is very in style at the moment, and Dick's seen more than one person do it white. So, it's feasible that Roy's friend Jason and the Red Hood simply chose the same eye-catching-type thing. And if it were anybody else, Dick would believe it.

But he's had his suspicions about Roy for _years,_ and that is just one too many connections for Dick to not come to a conclusion.

"Okay, um," Dick begins a little awkwardly. He sets his cup down, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I feel kind of...obligated to tell you that I know who you are."

Red Hood— _Jason_ —freezes.

When he says nothing, Dick continues. "I've kinda suspected that Roy is Arsenal for a while now, but I never wanted to push and make him tell me, 'cause that's an asshole move, and there was always the chance I was wrong and then _that_ would be an awkward conversation, don't'cha think? So, seeing you with him earlier today, and then having Red Hood—someone who has been seen with Arsenal a few times—show up with the same white streak in his hair, it's just..."

He shrugs a little helplessly. "I'm sorry. I promise I won't tell anyone. Remember the part about me being really good at keeping secrets? I meant it. Very good. So you don't have to worry about me telling anyone your name, or—"

"You know," Jason interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Roy was pretty proud of himself for hiding his identity from you."

Dick blinks. "What?"

"When we met earlier in the café," Jason begins to explain. "I recognized you as the paramedic who had no problem walking into an on-going gun fight to save some asshole's life. So after we left, I told Roy about that encounter and asked how he knew you. He explained about rehab and said that he's worked hard to keep you from figuring out he's a superhero, because he wanted you to be able to live, like, a normal life or whatever. Which as a paramedic in Gotham feels a little impossible, but that's where his brain was."

Dick grins. "He thought he was hiding it _well?_ Any time he would visit Gotham, there would be an Arsenal—or Red Arrow—sighting. He was always super vague about what he was doing in town. He'd show up with random injuries from time to time and have bullshit excuses. He thought that was _good_ secret keeping? Damn. You should check all the civilians who know him; I wouldn't be surprised if they all know."

Jason snorts, nodding, and then eyes Dick for a moment. "You know, he stopped me from looking you up."

Pardon?" Dick asks, frowning.

"I got suspicious about you, all the shit that didn't add up. I told Roy I was gonna do some research, and he asked me not to, said it was a personal favor. Usually I look at a person's whole life story before making a visit like this, but he wanted to protect your past, or something."

Dick feels a glow of warmth in his chest for the redhead. "He's a good friend."

Jason dips his chin in a nod, agreeing, and then picks his helmet up, putting it back on. "I'm gonna head out, got shit to do. Keep your nose clean, Grayson."

Dick laughs. "But where's the fun in that?"

* * *

Dick likes living with Lyra.

Well, technically, he lives with Lyra _and_ her husband Danny, but Danny spends about 90% of the day either asleep or drunk, and if he's drunk he's almost comatose, so really it's basically just Dick and Lyra.

At first, Dick had been concerned about how much Danny drinks. People who get drunk like that—consistently, never-endingly—tend to be mean, or get mean quickly. But when Dick mentions that a few days in, hesitant and unsure if it's his place to say, Lyra just smiles wryly and shakes her head.

"He's a drunk, definitely," she says. "But that's all he is. He doesn't get violent; all he wants is to drink. The store is his, technically. Founded by his father and passed down. I've been running that store for going on ten years now, and I'm not gonna give it up just because Danny's a bit useless."

And so that's that. Dick leaves Danny alone, Danny for the most part ignores his entire existence, and Lyra keeps the world turning around them.

She's a good person, and Dick can't believe how lucky he is to have ended up under her roof. She reminds him of his mama, so strong and caring, and she takes care of him. He helps in the store for thanks, and helps get the apartment baby ready since she's due in less than two months.

They fall into a good rhythm together. She doesn't enroll him in school because technically he's not supposed to be living with her at all, and they'd probably take him away, so instead she buys him a bunch of work books and they do their best to move forward like that. Dick likes it; he's never actually been to a real school before, and this home-schooling makes him think of how it goes at the circus.

How it _went_ at the circus, he means.

He has to correct himself a lot in that regard. Changing things about his parents and Haly's to past tense. It's hard, and it _hurts,_ but he gets through it. Lyra lost her parents when she was young, too, so she understands a bit. She tries her best, and it's more than enough.

The day Lyra's water breaks, it's lucky enough to fall on a day where Danny is more coherent than usual. He's even able to drive them to the hospital, though it is quite jerky at times, Dick and Lyra clutching at their seats and just praying that everything is going to be okay.

They get there with minimal trouble, and the nurses rush Lyra into a room, allowing Dick and Danny to trail compliantly along behind them. Dick's excited; he always loved being present for any new babies brought into the circus, a new member of the family, and it feels a bit like that now. Somebody new coming into the world that he can call family.

It creates something warm in his chest, maybe for the first time since before his parents fell.

Dick sits in an uncomfortable chair outside the delivery room, fidgeting while he waits. Lyra—even in the middle of her panic about getting to the hospital—made sure he brought something to do with him, so he has a book, but he can't focus enough to read it. She's going to have a baby!

It's a few hours later that Danny emerges from the room and collapses in a chair next to Dick, eyes a little wide and staring at nothing.

"How'd it go?" Dick asks hesitantly.

Danny blinks over at him like he hadn't realized Dick was there at all, and then nods absently. "Good, baby's healthy. Lyra's a little weak, they're fixing some bleeding. Should be good to go."

Dick grins at him and receives a faint smile in response. "That's great!" he says. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

Danny blinks, thinking, and says, "Girl." He doesn't sound overly sure, but Dick'll take his word for it, at least for now.

It's half an hour later that a doctor exits the room, pulling off his scrub cap. The look on his face is grim, far too serious for after the birth of a healthy baby, and suddenly Dick feels cold, his ears ringing.

Not again. Please, not again.

He barely hears the doctor as the man describes what went wrong, about bleeding and heart failure and preexisting conditions. The specifics don't matter to Dick. All he can think about is how Lyra is dead. She wasn't his mother, but she loved him like one, and the potential for it was there. He only knew her for two months, but it feels like the world is crashing around him.

Not again not again not again not again _not again—_

They offer to let them see her, but neither he nor Danny take them up on it. They tell them that the baby girl is in perfect health and they can take her home today, and they both just nod silently. They ask if they have a name for the newborn, and Danny stays silent, staring at everything and nothing at all.

"Lyra," Dick tells the doctor, barely able to get out more than a whisper. "After her mom. Her name should be Lyra."

The doctor looks to Danny for confirmation, but Danny still doesn't react, so the doctor just nods and says, "A very good name," before leaving them there.

Two hours later has them leaving the hospital with the same number of people they entered with. The same number of Dicks and Dannys and Lyras.

But it's not the same at all.

Dick is holding the baby carrier, because when the doctor brought over Baby Lyra, Danny had simply stared and stared until Dick took the newborn into his own arms. Danny hasn't said a word since the doctor told them the news. Not in the car, or when they get back home, or when Baby Lyra starts crying. He just grabs a bottle of alcohol and shuts himself in the main bedroom.

So Dick takes Baby Lyra into the kitchen and goes about making a bottle for her. Dick helped take care of the little kids at the circus, and the past two months he and Lyra spent time learning how to do everything for the new member of the family that was going to join them soon.

When it comes time for bed, Dick can't bring himself to set Baby Lyra down, so he sits on the couch and holds the newborn to his chest and lets himself drift off to the sound of her tiny heartbeat.

Danny doesn't make an appearance the next day, staying shut in his room. So Dick takes care of Lyra, and makes sure Jake—the teenager who helps out in the store for some spending money—has opened the store the right way. He doesn't answer when Jake asks about Lyra. He just holds Baby Lyra a bit more tightly and goes back upstairs.

On the second day, Danny still doesn't come out of his room. Dick knocks on the door hesitantly when the sun goes down, and receives no response. So he leaves it be, and sets Baby Lyra down to sleep in her crib.

Day three, still no Danny. This time, when Dick knocks and receives no response, he opens the door anyway. It's dark inside, the currents drawn and all the lights off, but he can make out the shape of Danny lying on the bed.

He walks over cautiously. He calls, "Danny?" and the figure doesn't stir. He reaches the bed and leans over, nose wrinkling at the overwhelming reek of alcohol. There are multiple empty bottles scattered across the floor near Danny and on the bedside table.

"Danny?" Dick says again, and reaches out to shake the man. But the instant he touches the man he recoils, because he's cold to the touch. He's not moving. He's not breathing.

Dick takes a few stumbling steps back and then rushes out of the room, scrambling for his bedroom and shutting the door behind him. Baby Lyra blinks up at him from where she lies on his bed, and Dick takes her into his arms, holding her close, and lets himself cry.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, clinging to a newborn and sobbing his eyes out for everything that's happened, but it's long enough that Baby Lyra starts to make noises of complaint, wiggling against him, face scrunching up.

So Dick releases her, checks her diaper, gets her a bottle. Then he starts to pack two bags, one of his things and the other for Baby Lyra. He makes sure he has her birth certificate and any other important documents, then pulls his shoes on and grabs the stroller, heading out of the apartment and the bodega for the last time.

He knows where the closest police precinct is because Lyra made sure he would know the distance to all the important places in case of emergency, so he makes his way there. He looks very different than he did two months ago, dressed in clothes that fit him and with clean hair and no more bruises, so no one gives him any strange looks as he walks down the street.

The police precinct is very busy when he gets there, so he waits in line for his turn to speak to the officer at the front desk.

The policeman's eyebrows raise when Dick steps up, his head barely coming over the top of the desk. He knows he's small for his age, and he's only nine years old anyway. That paired with the newborn baby in the stroller he's pushing, it must be a very odd combination to find in a police station.

"Can I help you?" the officer asks, looking curious about the answer, and Dick smiles at him the best he can, but he knows it comes off more as a grimace.

"Hi," he says. "This is Lyra Barton—" he gestures to the baby, "—and I'm Dick Grayson. Her mom died giving birth and her dad just drank himself to death."

The officer blinks at him, gaping a little. "Uh," he says. "Can you...sit over there, for a second?"

Dick nods and goes over to the chair he pointed out. He lifts Baby Lyra from the stroller and holds her instead; this is probably the last time he'll get to see her, and he already loves her so much. Losing her only a few days after losing Lyra is going to hurt so much.

A man with a mustache and glasses approaches after a few minutes, and crouches in front of Dick. "Hi there," he says kindly. "You said this little girl's parents are dead?" Dick nods. "You also said your name is Dick Grayson. Would you happen to be the same Dick Grayson who vanished two months ago after the death of his parents?" Dick nods again. "Alright. Can you explain any of that for me?"

"The youth center was a bad place," he tells the man, brow furrowing at the memories. "So I left. Lyra found me and took me in. She helped me. This is Baby Lyra, her daughter." Baby Lyra makes an inarticulate but powerful sound then, as if confirming her identity. "Lyra died after giving birth."

"And the father?"

Dick grimaces. "We got back from the hospital and he shut himself in his room and I didn't see him for three days. When I went into his room to see what was wrong, I found him dead. So I packed our stuff and came here."

The man offers him a supportive smile. "You did the right thing, coming here. I'm sorry for all the stuff you've been through."

"You'll find her a good home?" he asks, not wanting to dwell on what he's _been through._ "She's only three days old, she can't escape if it's a bad place like I did. You need to find her somewhere good."

The man nods seriously. "We will. If it makes you feel better, babies have a higher adoption rate than older kids. Chances are she's gonna be taken in by a couple that have been waiting for a baby for a long time. Okay?"

Dick's shoulders relax a little. "Good," he breathes, so relieved. He didn't want Baby Lyra to grow up unhappy simply because she got dealt a bad hand. She didn't deserve to go to a place like the youth center, or to a couple who wouldn't really love her.

"Now that we've taken care of her," the man says, nodding at Baby Lyra. Baby Lyra reaches out towards the man's mustache with rapt attention, and he leans in to allow the touching for a few moments, making Baby Lyra smile, before drawing back to continue talking. "We need to talk about you."

"I won't go back to the youth center," Dick says immediately, and clutches Baby Lyra more tightly in an unconscious response. "I-I won't do it, I can't, I—"

"Okay, okay," the man soothes, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "That's okay. You shouldn't have been there anyway. Now, there are less people who want older kids but they _do_ exist, and many foster parents don't mind either way, just want to take care of a kid. So you can stay with me and my family for a few nights while I find someone fitting for you, okay?"

Dick frowns. Things are rarely that good. But he _wants_ to believe it. He wants this nice man to take him in until he can stay with someone good more permanently. He wants it to be real and true so badly that it _aches._

"That sounds good," he says softly. "You promise?"

"I promise," the man replies, and the way he says it makes Dick believe it.

It turns out the man's name is James "Jim" Gordon, and he is the police commissioner. He's married to a woman named Barbara and has a daughter also named Barbara (who is two years older than Dick, and goes by Babs) and a son who is also named James (and is three years younger than Dick). They're all very nice and welcoming, and Babs is very pretty and kind, and James offers to play G.I. Joe with him, and it's good.

It's _good._

Dick's there for a week. The normalcy of it is odd to him; they're like the stereotypical American family that Dick would see on the TV, with sit-down dinners around a dining room table and set times for homework and sleep and watching TV. It's weird; he's never been in a house like this, never lived his life with this much structure. It's not _bad,_ of course, but it's different. It's not like the circus, where everything was moldable around practice schedules, or even like with Lyra, who changed things up depending on what she needed to do for the store, or doctor check-ups.

But Dick can handle it, can follow their rules because they've been so amazing, taking him in, giving him a home, treating him like he belongs there. Babs has a tendency to babble about the things she enjoys, and Dick could listen to her talk for hours. Which, considering Dick doesn't have much else to do, he does that quite a bit. She doesn't seem to mind, either; Dick gets the feeling people don't listen to her ideas for extended periods of time.

However, watching Commissioner Gordon and his wife who so obviously love their children immensely makes him think of his mama and papa, and he spends a few of his nights in their house muffling cries into his pillow at night, his pillow that doesn't smell like home.

It's been more than two months, so he's adjusting to life without them, but the instability of his life has really kept him from viewing it in full. And still, he isn't sure what the future is going to bring him. He trusts that Commissioner Gordon is going to do his best to help him, but you can only be sure of so many things in life; things are going to slip by every once in a while.

It's in one of the times he's reminding himself that Commissioner Gordon has his back that he realizes there's something he's been holding onto, and now he's in the perfect position to get something done about it.

It's his fifth night in the Gordon household when he knocks on the door to the commissioner's office, hesitantly going in at the call to enter.

"Dick," Commissioner Gordon greets, leaning back in his chair. "What can I do for you?"

"I want to talk about my parents," Dick says seriously. The man blinks, a little surprised. "I know what you're going to say. I get that it looks like an accident, that the wires just snapped and that's it. But it _wasn't an accident,_ and I _know_ it wasn't."

"Dick—"

"There was a man arguing with Pop Haly right before the show," Dick rushes to say. "They were angry, and Pop Haly was refusing to do something, and the man said he'd regret it and then I saw the man over by the trapeze riggings. There wasn't any time to tell anybody, and I didn't really think too much of it, and then the wires were snapping and my parents fell and—"

"Woah, woah!" the commissioner says, getting to his feet and walking over to Dick. "Breathe, Dick. It's okay, I believe you."

Dick blinks. "I—you do?"

Commissioner Gordon nods, putting his hands on Dick's shoulders. "I do. When you disappeared, it made us look a bit closer at everything. Mr. Haly fessed up about the so-called _protection_ that a mobster here forced upon the circus. The man's name is Anthony Zucco. We've got eyes on him, we're just gathering evidence to make sure he actually goes to prison when we bring him in. You're right, Dick. It wasn't an accident."

Dick stares at him, almost not comprehending.

They have him.

The police know who did it, who—who _killed his parents._ They believe him. They're going to send the man to prison. His parents are actually going to get justice.

"Oh," he says. "You— _oh."_

He throws himself forward, wrapping his arms around Commissioner Gordon's middle. The man goes tense for a second in surprise but then hugs Dick back.

"You're gonna be okay, Dick," Commissioner Gordon tells him softly. "You're gonna be just fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got invited to be a [guest writer](https://twitter.com/dickgraysonzine/status/1248345188612755456?s=21) on a Dick Grayson zine that'll be coming out, which is pretty neat 😊 [Applications are open](https://twitter.com/dickgraysonzine/status/1240989583086620674?s=21) until April 20th for any writers, artists, and merch makers who want to be a part of it!
> 
> Also! The DCU Big (and Mini) Bang [sign-ups](https://dcubang.tumblr.com/post/614245733455036416) are now open! Check it out if you think you might be interested. Sign-ups close May 1st for writers and July 18th for fanworkers


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dick Grayson Week 2020 Day 2: **bottom!Dick** | Court of Owls | (Super)power AU
> 
> Yes this is late, what about it? Also, considering this is being posted at 4 in the morning, expect possible typos. I'll fix 'em after I sleep 👍🏻
> 
> So for Day 2 I _was_ gonna do a Court of Owls fic, but then _this_ fic seriously captured my attention and pushed the Court fic to a later date 😊

Dick meets his new foster father for the first time in the living room of the Gordon household.

There are perks that come with staying with the commissioner of police, and one of them is that everything really happens on his terms.

Commissioner Gordon talks to him before it, tells him a little bit about the man that he has, _personally,_ approved of as Dick's future guardian. He says that someone from Child Protective Services will also be present for the meeting, just to watch it all happen, but it really will just be a conversation between Dick and a stranger. However, a stranger approved by a man Dick's started to really like, so.

Usually, kids going into foster care don't get a say where they're placed. Another perk of living in the commissioner's household.

They come over at 2pm. The man—Eric Raymond, forty-eight years old, private security—is tall and broad, Caucasian but tanned, carries himself like a soldier. But with all of that, when he greets Commissioner Gordon he's open and polite, and when he turns to look at Dick there's a kind patience in his eyes, a certain amount of confidence that everything is going to be okay that makes Dick feel stronger in return.

"Hi," Eric says, and sits down on the couch across from Dick. "I'm Eric. It's nice to meet you. Dick, right?"

Dick nods. He glances at Commissioner Gordon and the CPS lady, who have moved over to the connected den, far enough away to give them some amount of privacy but still have the interaction in line of sight.

"Yeah," Dick says. "That's me. I..." What do you say in a meeting like this? "Commissioner Gordon said you've fostered before?"

Eric nods. "Quite a few times, yes. I also have two sons, though they're out of the house by now."

"How old are they?" Dick asks curiously.

"Andrew is twenty-three and Jacob is twenty." Eric tilts his head. "If I may ask, how long has it been since your parents died? I...heard about the incident."

Dick swallows, eyes sliding to the floor. "A little under two and a half months. It's...been hard."

He sees Eric nod again. "I lost my mother when I was just a year older than you, so I can understand the loss, and I'm sorry you've gone through that. I bet your life has been pretty unsteady since then."

Dick looks back up at him, biting his lip, feeling oddly vulnerable. "Yeah," he says hoarsely. "Yeah, it has. A lot of...a lot of bad stuff has happened. And I...it's been hard not knowing what's going to happen next."

"My experience so far with kids in the foster system is a lot of that," Eric says. "Being unsure, afraid, hesitant to do anything because there's been so much pain. And life just going up and down, no consistency, no structure. That's one of the things I try to implement in my house; just a level of structure, just to help kids feel steadier on their feet while so much shifts around them."

That makes sense. Dick's still not sure how he feels about the word _structure,_ but he does have to admit that it sounds nice right now, just to help him feel a little settled for the first time in a while.

"That sounds kinda nice," Dick decides to tell him.

Eric smiles at him. "I'm glad. Dick, I want to give _you_ the tools to make your way in the world. I'm a stranger, someone who's going to be housing you pretty soon after your parents died, so I can understand if a familial attachment doesn't form. But for however long you're with me, what I want to do is make sure you have the ability to do whatever you want. I want to help you reach that point, to help you feel strong and _be_ strong, after so much trauma."

Dick can't help but smile back, something warm glowing in his chest. Everything Eric just said makes him feel like he can do this, and like he has someone at his back while he does. He always felt that way with his parents, and it's so great to feel that way again.

"I'm okay with that," Dick whispers, his eyes crinkling with his smile, and Eric looks pleased.

"Great, Dick," he says, nodding in approval. "Absolutely great."

Something Dick learns quickly, as soon as he moves into Eric's house, is that the man wasn't kidding about structure.

Everything in his house has a place it's supposed to go, there are certain ways he's supposed to do things, there are designated mealtimes and snack times, there is planned free time and planned time for work, and set bedtimes and alarms for the morning.

There are a _lot_ of rules, way more than the Gordon household had, and it's extremely weird to Dick. But he doesn't complain, because Eric is nice while describing everything, just matter-of-fact and steady, and it's not like they're _bad_ rules, just more than Dick's used to. Maybe this kind of controlled environment is common for foster houses, or maybe just houses with kids in general.

Not like Dick would know any different.

Dick puts away the things he brought with him the way Eric tells him, hanging them up and folding them in the proper way. He has his own bathroom, which is very nice, and agrees readily when Eric tells him he's responsible for cleaning it—and his room—himself, and he needs to keep them both clean. Dick can understand; Eric is clearly a military man, and likes things to be orderly. A little obsessive, maybe, but not completely odd.

He's a very kind person, Dick finds. He's patient when Dick forgets to do something and listens attentively whenever Dick talks, not dismissing what he says like grownups sometimes tend to do. Eric's firm about his decisions but some of his decisions are about making Dick happy, so it's not like Dick's going to complain about some stubbornness when sometimes that makes his life better.

A few days after he starts living with him, Eric takes Dick to the local elementary school for academic testing. The school year's almost up, so it won't really have any relevance until a few months down the line, but Eric says it's good to get things done sooner rather than later, and it's not like Dick has anything better to do.

The tests go by pretty smoothly, not overly hard, and the woman who administered them says they'll be contacted in a couple weeks with the results and their suggested course of action from there.

Eric asks him how he thinks he did, and when dick tells him the tests were easy, he takes him out for ice cream.

After a week of living with Eric and adjusting to the tense schedules, Eric tells him that they're going to be adding some things to his day.

"There are three and a half months before the new school year starts," he says, sitting across from Dick at the dinner table. "You can't just sit around and do nothing the entire time. I won't allow it, and it's not good for you anyway."

Dick, used to actively working at the circus, doesn't hesitate to nod. "Sounds good," he agrees. "I like to keep busy."

Eric smiles at him, approving, and then teaches him how to properly make a bed. (This, out of everything, is what confirms the military background to Dick; no one cares that much about crisp corners and tucked-in sheets if they didn't have it beat into them.)

The next day, Eric has a list of activities for Dick to choose from, from art classes to a soccer team to kickboxing.

"Pick five," Eric tells him. "At least two of them have to be physical in nature, but whatever they are is up to you. The important thing you have to know is that I'm not going to let you quit; whatever you pick, you're going to stick it out no matter what. Alright?"

Dick scans the list, nodding. He can do that; his parents didn't like him quitting things either, though they didn't typically say it the way Eric is.

His list of five is pretty easy to make. "Gymnastics, soccer, track and field, ceramics, chess club."

Eric raises an eyebrow at him. "Wasn't expecting the chess part."

Dick grins at him. "I like chess! The fire breather at Haly's taught me and it was a bunch of fun."

Eric gives him that approving look again and Dick's chest feels warm in response. "I have a set," Eric tells him. "We should play sometime."

They play that night, and Eric does _not_ take it easy on Dick. The man's clearly an accomplished player, and he kicks Dick's butt a few times before they give it a rest. But Dick's a fast learner, and Eric praises his skills, so as time goes by he thinks he reaches the point of being a worthy opponent.

(The first time Dick wins a game against him, the look on Eric's face is so proud that Dick can't stop smiling for a long time.)

That summer, as other kids are enjoying their time relaxing out of school, Dick's busier than he's been in a long time.

The five classes he's been signed up for take up a good amount of his time, and the remaining two days are not for rest like Dick assumed they'd be; no, Eric has his own plans for Dick's schedule for then.

Dick's alarm gets him up at six thirty in the morning. He makes his bed, gets dressed, goes downstairs. Eric's already in the kitchen by that point, making them healthy smoothies, which they drink before warming up and going on a run. It's a long run, long enough that Dick (who is in excellent physical health, thank you very much) is sucking in breaths desperately, sweating through his t-shirt.

When they get back he showers, heads back to the kitchen, where Eric is making breakfast for them. Eggs, sausages, oatmeal, some form of fruit. Then an hour and a half to do whatever he wants, then back into workout clothes for them to go down to the full gym Eric has set up in the basement. He lets Eric direct him to what he'll be working on that day, whether it's cardio or strength training or any number of other things, and then they are down there for three hours.

They both take another shower, and Eric makes them lunch. Dick now gets a few hours to himself again, which he usually uses to nap or watch TV, something that doesn't take a lot of effort. Next is chess or other strategic games like it, then dinner, then relaxation time that is secluded to his room, and lights out by nine.

This becomes his new normal, until he could follow it all in his sleep. Eric's strict about it, irritated whenever Dick strays from what he's supposed to be doing, but Dick simply has to do what he's told and then Eric is happy with him, and overall life's pretty great. Busy, maybe even intense, but still pretty great.

In September, school begins, his first ever real school experience. He's starting the fifth grade (apparently a year ahead of his age, which made Eric look very pleased with him when they learned where he was being placed), and Dick's anxious about it. What if he's bad at doing it this way? What if he's the stupidest one there? What if they all make fun of him?

"Dick," Eric says as they're driving to school. They still went on a run this morning, just like always, just a bit shorter than usual so he could have time to eat before it was time for school. (After three months of that daily run and working out with Eric all the time, Dick is no longer heaving breaths, but keeping pace.) "You're going to ace this."

Dick looks over at his guardian in surprise. Eric isn't shy with praise when he's done well, but he doesn't often offer up things like that in quiet moments.

"You're nervous," Eric continues, observant. "It's understandable that you are. But you're a strong kid, Dick. You can handle eight hours of all these kids."

He says it with such confidence, such pure _knowledge,_ that Dick has no choice but to believe him.

The day does, in fact, go pretty well. He gets a lot of attention as the new kid, but it's not really _bad_ attention, just everyone curious and excited about some form of change. It's odd for Dick—not only the structured schooling, but interacting with so many people again. He's been socializing through his summer activities, but it's a different kind of experience than a full school day, and Dick's barely really hung out with anyone other than Eric in a while.

He's proud of himself when he makes it through the day without a single hitch, and feels overjoyed when Eric tells him he's proud of him, too.

The CPS lady visits a couple of weeks later for a check-in. They talk in the living room, Eric going into his office (a room Dick is not supposed to enter without permission, unless it's an emergency) to give them some privacy.

The lady asks questions about what it's like living with Eric and how he's enjoying his new school and if he's made any friends and what he does for fun. Dick answers everything honestly, and he thinks he says all the right things because she looks happy when they finish up.

Eric sends him upstairs to do his homework when the lady asks to speak to him alone, and Dick does something he hasn't done since the first days with Eric—he ignores the order, sitting silently on the staircase to listen in. It's about him, after all; he wants to know what they're saying.

It's a brief conversation, mostly just seeing some things from Eric's point of view (and when Eric says, "He's a great kid, I'm happy to have him," Dick grins), though the lady does at one point suggest, "I think you should encourage him to make more friends; you two seem to spend a majority of your time together, which is absolutely fine! It just might be good for him to branch out."

Eric nods, agrees with a laugh, offers her coffee, then escorts her out when she declines. Dick starts to go upstairs again so he won't get caught, but freezes when he hears Eric say, "Stop."

Dick cringes and turns around. Eric's expression is cold, looking at him with pursed lips and a furrowed brow, and it makes Dick freeze for an entirely new reason now. Eric's always been serious, had a no-nonsense side, but this feels...different.

"Didn't I tell you to go upstairs?"

Dick nods silently, unable to find his voice at the moment.

"Well?" Eric prompts, and he doesn't quite raise his voice, but it _feels_ loud against Dick's rising pulse.

"You did," Dick says weakly. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to know—"

"Go to your room, no dinner."

Dick's eyes go wide, gaping at him. "What?" For _eavesdropping?_ He's withholding a meal because he listened in on _one_ conversation?

"Do not," Eric says coldly, "make me repeat myself."

There's something about his voice that makes Dick terribly afraid, and he obeys, dashing up the stairs.

* * *

Dick will admit that he has a tendency to get himself into trouble.

He's been told that in the past, from multiple sources, all of whom had his best interests at heart. (Well, most of the time, anyway.) And it's not like Dick doesn't also have a tendency to get himself _out_ of trouble, but no one ever really focuses on that part. Just the fact that he ends up where he ends up at all.

He doesn't know what it is that makes him seek out the Red Hood again, a few weeks after the vigilante broke into his apartment. Maybe it's that tendency of his, just unable to keep away from dangerous, troubling things. Maybe it's his inability to let something go once it's captured his attention. Maybe he's just self-destructive enough to put himself in the line of fire, _knowing_ he's going to get burned.

Well, that's what Barbara says, anyhow. But Dick tries not to listen to her; _she_ has a tendency to be right, and Dick would rather not have her spew (however accurate) psychology at him. He got enough of that when he attended therapy.

It gives him something to do in his off hours, at least. The search for Red Hood, he means.

It starts casually, just a passing remark from Ryan about how insane it was that Dick managed to hold Red Hood's attention while there were dead bodies lying all around them and cop fast approaching, sirens wailing. It hit Dick, right then, that Hood had sought _him_ out. Asked Roy about him, entered his home, showed his face, drank his tea, all for the purpose of getting some answers.

Maybe he isn't the only one with a fascination.

So, he sends a message to Roy. The redhead's already long gone out of Gotham (with a few hundred apologies about the insults to Dick's intelligence by thinking he was _subtle)_ but he does get an almost immediate phone call in response to his text, which brings a grin to Dick's face as he picks up.

"Roy, what—"

_"—Do you want with Hood? Funny, I was gonna ask you the same thing."_

"It was an innocent question," Dick says with faux innocence. He leans back in his desk chair, rolling out the crick in his neck; he's been bent over in the same position for a long while, and it's starting to get to him. He should probably take a walk, or something.

 _"Dickie, I don't think you're capable of innocent questions,"_ Roy tells him dryly, and Dick frowns.

"What does _that_ mean? I can be innocent! I can have casual conversations!"

Roy laughs at him. _"Dick, I've known you for going on eight years now. Never_ once _have you been able to talk about_ anything _without even the_ slightest _bit of analysis or reason behind why you want the information."_

Dick pulls the phone away from his ear, staring at it incredulously for a moment, before lifting it once more. "That's just not true."

He can picture Roy's one-shouldered shrug in his head when his friend says, _"It's not necessarily a bad thing, it's just the way your brain's wired. Now, if we could move the conversation away from your psychological problems—"_ Dick throws up his hand, affronted, _"—and back towards why you asked how Red Hood is doing?"_

Dick purses his lips. Well, he was asking that to open up the conversation and lead up to a question about where he might _find_ the gun-toting vigilante, but he really doesn't want to do that now. Not after Roy's apparent observation about Dick being unable to just ask a question without there being a bigger reason. If he asks where he could find Jason, he's just proving Roy's point!

"It was just a question," Dick stresses. "Honestly, I have no other inquiries for you, Mr. Harper. Yeesh, so suspicious all the time."

There's a judgmental silence.

Dick huffs a laugh and gets to his feet, tucking his cellphone between his shoulder and ear. He's starting to get hungry, and he thinks he has some leftover take-out in the fridge. "We met three times within two days, Roy. One of which included him breaking into my apartment, another with both of us hanging out over a guy bleeding out. Forgive me for being curious about how he's doing."

Another silence, brief this time, and it feels slightly less judgy.

 _"Right,"_ Roy says slowly, sounding thoughtful. _"Well, last I talked to him, he's fine. Living his life, same as always."_

"Great!" Dick says brightly, and lets out a successful noise as he locates the Chinese food container in his fridge. "Well, that's it on the Red Hood subject. How about you? How's Lian?"

Roy snorts, leaves Dick hanging in silence for a few moments, and then begins talking about the latest antics his daughter has gotten into.

Dick lets the words wash over him, enjoying the simplicity of the conversation; it's not always like this, with people. He's good at making friends with everyone, but he's not too great at...connecting. Roy's always made things strangely easy, though. Like he just _got_ it, without even knowing what _it_ was.

He does now, of course. Roy's probably the only person Dick's ever willingly shared details of the not-so-happy parts of his life with.

And he's grateful to his friend for stopping Jason from doing research. A lot of the rougher shit isn't on records anywhere, but some of it is, sealed as it may be. Roy knows. He understands.

It helps that Dick was absolutely _hammered_ when sharing those details with the redhead. But, semantics. Dick has solid enough control that even drunk, he wouldn't let out any secrets he wasn't willing to share. It's just a lot easier when not sober.

Obviously, going the route of asking Roy is a no-go. From there, Dick is unsure about how to go about this. It's not like he and Red Hood exactly run in the same circles. Of course, Dick does have quite a few friends on the force. He can reach out to them, probably convince them to let him know about any sightings if he says it's important. Which, it kind of is. If not in the same way they'd probably consider.

He reaches out to them anyway, and then goes about his life, keeping out an ear for any big fights that include all members of the batclan, knowing Red Hood is probably amongst them.

And, okay, maybe he's becoming a little bit obsessed with this search. But it's not like he can just let this go, not when it's so terribly interesting. Outside of the challenging cases at work, his life's been lacking a certain something the last few years.

Which Barbara and Roy would probably say is a _good_ thing, but what do they know. It's not like they have...too _big_ of a point. Maybe a tiny one. Maybe.

Three weeks after Jason's break-in of his apartment, five days after Dick texted Roy about Hood, Dick gets another visit.

He's walking home after grabbing dinner with Ryan at a small diner, both of them coming down from their long shift. Normally Dick would take his motorcycle, or let Ryan give him a ride home, but sometimes he needs the slow path, the time to just breathe in the crisp Gotham air and stare up at the sky between the tall buildings, imagining that maybe he can see the stars, if he looks hard enough.

His phone rings as he's unlocking his apartment door. He glances down at it and pulls a face, pushing the decline button with relish; he doesn't know why _now,_ after three years, his ex is deciding to reach out, but he's truly uninterested.

Dick puts on sweatpants and a hoodie, and then makes his way up to the roof. One of the—various—reasons he chose this building when looking for a new place was that it has rooftop access, so that he can come up here any time he likes.

He misses a life of living in the sky. He misses it like a drowning man misses air, or a man in the desert misses water. It was so part of his life, of his very _being,_ while growing up. These days, there's one gymnasium in Gotham with a full trapeze set, and it's expensive to use, so he doesn't go all that often. He can't. It makes him kind of sad, but he chose this profession, this life.

There are side effects to making your own way in the world, and Dick has accepted them with open arms.

Frankly, Dick wishes he had the strength to donate all the money he got willed to him instead of using it to help with rent. He hates that he uses it at all. He doesn't want to. But he knows that's ridiculous; he shouldn't hurt himself just to spite a dead man. That's impractical.

He's been up there for an hour before he hears the nearly silent touch-down of feet on the roof somewhere behind him. He can't help the way he tenses, body bracing automatically for an attack, but the person approaches easily, no quick steps of impending violence, so he makes himself relax, tilting his head back to see who it is.

Dick smiles.

"Heard you were lookin' for me," Red Hood drawls, stepping up beside the lawn chair Dick is reclining in. The helmet tilts down, clearly looking back at Dick, and Dick's smile widens.

"If I knew all it would take is screaming my interest in finding you to as many people as I can, I would've started with that, not gone through Roy." He cocks his head. "Though, Roy was probably the one to mention it, right?"

Hood nods. "Said you asked about me. Wouldn't really say much more, but he was acting kinda weird. Then an informant told me you were askin' around, so..." He shrugs a shoulder. "What can I do for you, Grayson?"

Dick blinks. Well, he didn't really have a goal past finding the Red Hood. Honestly he didn't expect Jason to seek him out at all. He knew the vigilante was at least semi-interested in figuring Dick out; why else break in to his apartment? Why ask Roy about him? Why actually stay to drink some tea after receiving an explanation?

But still, Dick figured that would be it. Hood would go back to his life and handle things more important than a vaguely fascinating paramedic. Dick had assumed that his search for Red Hood would end with him finding him, Jason telling him to knock it off, Dick snarking about how he's not the boss of him, maybe a threat or two to his personal safety, and then, well, something would call Dick away and that would be that. Dick could scratch his curiosity itch and move on with his life, back to the regularity of his off-hours.

Yeah. Sounds so fun.

"Thought you might want to hang out," Dick says with a charming smile instead of examining all that shit in his head. "I had a blast giving you a tongue-lashing over an unconscious body, and stealing your gun was pretty fun, too; thought maybe we could do it again sometime."

Like the other night, Dick wishes the helmet were gone so he could see what facial expression Jason is making in the silence that follows his statement. And he realizes that this time, he can just _ask._

"Hey, would you take that thing off?" He gestures towards the red helmet. "I feel like you have an unfair advantage with it on, all blocked off. Me, I'm an open book."

"Are you?" Hood shoots back. Dick opens his mouth to retort, but can't find a single thing to say.

Red Hood lets the silence remain for another few moments and then reaches up, releasing the locking mechanism to remove his helmet. He tucks it under one arm and runs a hand through his hair with the other, then looks over and cocks an eyebrow.

"Satisfied?"

Dick hums, looking him over. Strong jawline with the slightest hint of stubble, full lips with a small scar bisecting the corner of his bottom lip. He remembers those blue-green eyes, so sharp and layered, and feels exasperated by the existence of the red domino mask still in place.

"Not quite," Dick says. "I think you missed a spot."

Jason snorts, shaking his head. "We are currently out in plain view while I'm still in costume; not a chance, pretty boy. _Some_ people have to worry about getting figured out."

"That hair of yours isn't helping your case," Dick drawls, and ignores the way his heart moves a little faster at the semi-compliment. "If you want a secret identity, you're gonna want to stop dyeing your hair so distinctively."

"You'd be surprised," Jason mutters. "And I'm not gonna do anything to my hair."

Dick raises an eyebrow; the way that's phrased implies that he's not _already_ doing something to his hair, which, looking at the bright white streak of hair in the front of his head, seems kind of impossible. Then again, the world they live in _is_ pretty weird, and Jason's a superhero; who knows what kind of mutation-or-whatever he has?

"I notice," Dick says, "that you didn't answer my question."

"What question?"

Dick purses his lips, considering. He already put the offer out there, made the attempt. He doesn't really want to do it again.

Jason starts to laugh.

Dick blinks, unsure. What is he—?

"Christ, and I thought the Bat was emotionally constipated," Jason says, chuckling. "Roy said you were challenged in this regard but—"

"Roy said _what?"_ Dick asks, enraged, getting to his feet. So much for Roy being an excellent friend. "And what else did Roy say about me?"

Jason winces, realizing he put his foot in his mouth. "Hey, I'm sorry, it wasn't nice of me to laugh, you just—" He cuts off, shaking his head. "When I...broached the subject of you after that night, Roy kind of—well, I mean, it was like a light version of a shovel talk, I guess? He just said that life hadn't dealt you an easy hand, and you tend to be...guarded. He didn't say anything else, didn't break your trust. I promise."

Dick stands there, stunned, his anger fading away to confusion. None of what Jason just said makes sense; when _he_ broached the subject of Dick, not Roy telling him that Dick had asked about him? And shovel talks happen when people are dating, or doing something along those lines. There's nothing going on between Dick and Jason, just a bit of mutual fascination. That's all, like a passing curiosity.

"You gonna say somethin' or should I apologize again?" Jason asks dryly, drawing an amused huff out of Dick.

"I still haven't received a response to my question," Dick mutters, a tad petulantly, kicking his foot against the rooftop.

Jason chuckles. "What time does your shift start tomorrow?"

Dick frowns. "Not 'till one, why?"

"Be dressed at ten," Jason tells him, and pulls his helmet back on, beginning to stride towards the edge of the roof.

"I— _what?"_

"See you tomorrow, Grayson!" Hood calls back at him as he pulls a device out and aims it, leaping off the roof as a line shoots out and connects, swinging the vigilante through the air and away from Dick's building.

Dick can do nothing but watch him go, feeling a deep longing in his chest to be able to do that, too.

* * *

Dick wakes up with his alarm at 6:30 in the morning, same as every day in Eric's house, and lies there for an extra moment than he usually does.

He assumes that his punishment for eavesdropping has ended, that going to bed without dinner is all he needs to expect, but he's still reluctant to go downstairs and join his foster father. That cold anger was unfamiliar, like Eric had turned his strictness from a five up to a nine between one blink and the next. Dick doesn't want to go to the kitchen and find that nothing's changed, that Eric is still mad.

He shouldn't be, but what if he _is?_ What if Dick really messed up, more than he realized?

Still, he can't just laze around. If Eric's not still angry, he will be if Dick is late. So Dick gets up and makes his bed, making sure it's perfect, and then pulls on a clean pair of jogging shorts and a t-shirt before heading downstairs and towards the kitchen.

Eric's in there when he arrives, currently pouring out two smoothies for the pair of them. His eyes flick up when Dick enters, and Dick waits for that cold anger, but Eric looks the same as he always does, calm and collected and confident. "Good morning, Dick," he says, and pushes the (nutritional, of course) smoothie lightly towards Dick as he approaches the counter. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," Dick says, and tries to shake off his hesitance. Why is he making such a big deal about this? He did something wrong, he received a small punishment in response; Eric's clearly not mad anymore, so Dick needs to just _relax._ "How about you?"

"Very well, thank you for asking," Eric says, and takes the blender over to the sink to wash it before they leave. Dick picks up his glass and sips at it while he waits. And smiles hesitantly when Eric turns around and cocks an eyebrow at him.

"Now," Eric says, "is there anything you'd like to say to me?"

Ah, Dick understands this part. After a timeout Mama would always say something just like that, and what she wanted was— "You told me to go upstairs, and I didn't do it. Instead I listened in on a private conversation, which was wrong. I'm sorry for ignoring what you said and eavesdropping."

Eric looks pleased, making Dick smile back. But then Eric adds, "Sir."

Dick blinks. "I—huh?"

"When talking to a superior, especially when apologizing, it's customary to say _Sir_ or _Ma'am_. It's a sign of respect."

A _superior?_ Dick's never heard anyone refer to themselves as his _superior_ before. But, well, the respect thing makes sense. And he's called people _Sir_ or _Ma'am_ before, all the time actually, with adults he interacts with. He's just never had to do it with people who are his guardians. Mama and papa never cared about any of that strict ceremony, and Lyra certainly didn't. But if that's what Eric wants, it's no problem. It's understandable.

So, Dick says, "I'm sorry for what I did, Sir. I won't do it again, I promise."

If Dick thought Eric looked pleased before, it's _nothing_ compared to the approving nod and the hand that falls on Dick's shoulder, squeezing briefly before releasing.

"You're forgiven, Dick," he says easily. "Now, let's get a move on, yeah? We have a run to get to before school."

In mid-October, almost five months after Dick started living with Eric, Eric starts working more. He's one of the founders of a security firm, which gave him the ability to step back for a while so that he could spend time with his new foster kid and get said kid settled before actively working again, past off-sight managerial work.

It's an adjustment to Dick's schedule; normally, Eric would pick him up after school, and then an hour later take him to whatever new activity he had. But now, Dick takes the school bus home and then a city bus to wherever he needs to go. Eric has a pretty nice house in the suburbs of Gotham, a place Dick honestly hadn't believed existed after seeing what _Gotham_ is like, but it's not hard to get from there and into the city proper. The buses run pretty regularly, too, which is helpful.

It's odd being in the house without Eric present. It's normally quiet anyway, unless during the time Dick's allowed to watch TV or Eric has his own TV in his office on, so it's not a large lack of noise without his foster father home, but Eric always has such a _presence_ that the house feels almost uncomfortably empty without him in it.

For a brief moment, Dick's tempted to do something he's not supposed to do. Grab a sugary treat from the cabinets outside of dessert time. Go lift some weights downstairs without Eric to spot him. Push off his homework and watch TV instead.

He almost laughs at himself; what a stupid idea. Why the hell would he do that? Eric would know, of course he would, and be angry. Life's pretty great right now, he doesn't want to upset the balance.

So, he grabs a snack and sets up at the dining room table to get his homework done. When his alarm goes off telling him it's time to leave, he packs his stuff up and heads for the bus stop. The day before, Eric ran through the system with him until Dick knew the entire bus route system by heart, but he's still nervous about doing it by himself. There's a difference between _knowing_ how to do something in theory and actually having to _apply_ that knowledge.

It goes off without a hitch, because of course it does. He gets to his soccer practice (a different team than over summer) with no problems, and gets back the same way.

When Eric gets home that night, he asks how it went, and when Dick explains it all, he says, "Good job, Dick. I'm proud of you."

The next two weeks pass in much the same fashion, nothing going wrong.

But one day, the bus to take him back to the house is a few minutes late. Not a huge deal, that happens occasionally because traffic can be a bitch, but when two minutes turns to five turns to ten, Dick is starting to get antsy.

He pulls out the cellphone Eric got him—saying that with the city they live in and the fact that Dick's traveling by himself, he needs a form of contact—and checks the Gotham City Public Transportation website for any update on what might be going on.

Well, it seems a Joker attack downtown just happened, and the bus got caught in the wreckage. So yeah, that's not coming to pick him up any time soon.

He's been contemplating what to do next—and certainly _not_ panicking—for all of twenty seconds when he feels someone approach him. He turns, eyes wide, and sees a tall man in ratty clothing and a mean snarl standing over him, a knife held in hand. Dick jerks back to run, but the man grabs ahold of his shirt, holding him in place.

"Settle," the man sneers, voice a rough gravel. "I just want your shit, kid, no need to get testy."

Dick pants heavily, afraid, and lets the man yank his backpack off and snatch the phone from his hand.

"You got a wallet?" he asks, and Dick shakes his head quickly, trying to get his breathing back down into something that won't make his chest burn as much as it is now. The man makes a dismissive noise and then shoves him to the ground before taking off, vanishing quickly out of sight.

Dick stays there for a little while, sucking in air and fighting off the absurd need to cry, before pushing himself to his feet. The palms of his hands are scraped up from catching his fall, but otherwise he's unharmed. Just...very anxious.

He wraps his arms around himself, glancing around anxiously, and feels severe relief when he spots a payphone. He dashes over to it and pulls a quarter out of his jacket pocket, the one where Eric makes sure he has twenty-five dollars stored for possible emergencies, and then jams the quarter into the slot. It takes him a couple tries, fingers shaking, but hearing the dial tone when he gets it is an almost magical experience.

He knows Eric's phone number by heart (both his cellphone _and_ his work phone), and listens to it ring, heart pounding in his chest, loud enough that he feels like the entire world should be able to hear it.

_"Eric Raymond."_

"Eric!" Dick sobs out, relieved. "The Joker blew up the bus and this guy stole my backpack and my phone and I don't know what to do—"

 _"Dick, breathe,"_ Eric instructs, sounding firm and reliable, and it instantly calms Dick a little bit. Eric can always fix things. _"Breathe in on a count of four, hold it for four, breathe out for four, hold four. Then repeat. Do you understand?"_

"Yeah," Dick gasps, and then tries to follow the instruction. Eric counts over the phone with him, and it's grounding enough that soon Dick's no longer on the edge of hyperventilating. He still feels shaky, but less like he's going to collapse or pass out any second.

 _"Very good,"_ Eric praises. _"Very good. Now, can you tell me where you are?"_

"The bus stop near the art studio."

_"Alright, I'm on my way. Just sit tight, I'll be there soon."_

He hangs up then, but Dick wishes he would've stayed on the phone. Though it's not good to drive while using a cellphone, so he supposes he can understand. He just has to wait for Eric. Everything is going to be okay.

Eric arrives seventeen minutes later, pulling up to the curb beside where Dick is huddled next to the payphone. Dick throws himself forward as soon as the man steps out of the car, wrapping his arms around his middle. Eric's a little stiff in the hold, arms out a little awkwardly, but he brings a hand down onto Dick's head, a comforting and solid weight.

"You're alright," Eric tells him. "Come on, get in the car."

Dick falls asleep on the ride home, only waking up when Eric shakes his shoulder lightly, guiding him inside the house.

"Get changed," Eric says. "Something you'd wear when we work out. Then meet me in the gym."

Dick stares after him as Eric heads out of view, and then does as he's told, feet dragging slightly as he heads upstairs again. He feels exhausted; he really just wants to lie down and take a nap, but he gets changed anyway and washes his hands, then heads down to the home gym in their basement.

Eric's already there when he arrives, and he's wrapping something around his wrists and hands. He notices Dick immediately and gestures for him to approach, which Dick does quickly.

"Make a pair of fists," Eric instructs, and Dick does it, watching curiously as Eric does the same kind of wrapping around Dick's hands, manipulating his fingers as needed until it's all in place and secure.

"Today you were afraid," Eric says, looking him in the eyes. "Your plan went out the window, someone attacked you, you were alone and hurt and afraid. Yes?"

Dick nods. He whispers, "Yes."

"Right," Eric says, nodding shortly. "When we first met, I told you I wanted to give you the tools to go forward and make your way in the world, to make something of _your_ life. That I was going to help you gain the ability to do whatever you want in the world, strong in the way you deserve to be. This is the next step."

He walks over to the mats and gestures for Dick to follow him, which Dick does, rolling his shoulders like he would before a jump through the air.

"I'm going to teach you to fight," Eric says, and Dick blinks, eyes going wide. "I'm going to teach you a lot of things, so you never feel like you did today. I'm going to help you conquer the fear you experienced earlier. You'll never be in a position like that again, do you hear me? The next time someone approaches you to take your stuff, they're going to find it very difficult to do so."

"The guy had a knife," Dick says dumbly, unable to fully process what Eric just said. He likes the idea of never feeling afraid, never feeling the way the man made him feel, but mama and papa used to say that fear makes people human, and it's okay to be afraid. Eric's talking about it like fear is the enemy, and they need to stamp it out.

But he's just a kid. Is this something they should be doing?

Eric smiles at him, confident and calm like he always is. "I'm going to teach you to deal with that, too."

* * *

Frankly, Dick's day is _not_ going to plan.

It starts extremely normally. He wakes up at seven, goes on a run, takes a shower, makes breakfast, reads a little, gets dressed. He doesn't know what Jason has planned, what's going to be happening before work today, so he settles on a simple pair of dark jeans, a t-shirt, and a coat. He makes sure he has his wallet, his phone, his keys, and a small taser—can never be too careful in Gotham.

By 9:45 he's sitting there, ready to go, feeling a bit like a teenage girl going on a first date, which is absolutely ridiculous. He's a grown man, he's gone out with many people, and this isn't even technically a date. The fact that he doesn't know what they're going to do isn't a big deal. The fact that he has no clue what the hell he's doing is _fine._ None of this is worth getting worked up over. He doesn't need to feel so unsettled by being a little out of control.

At ten sharp, there's a knock on the door. Dick pauses, calms himself down, and then goes over to answer. Immediately, a cup of coffee is shoved into his hands, which Dick takes on instinct, blinking down at it.

"Come on," Jason says, already turning on his heels to stride back down the hall towards the elevator. Dick blinks after him, closing and locking his apartment door, and then follows, stepping into the elevator when it opens.

Jason looks over at him, offering a smile, and _there_ are those eyes Dick likes so much.

Christ, what is he, fifteen?

Dick cocks an eyebrow, ignoring the urge to compliment his eyes or tuck the loose lock of hair back into place, and takes a sip of the coffee. He recognizes it as from the little café down the street, and it's even his favorite blend. He can't help the way his lips curve up into a small smile, and he hides it by taking another sip.

"So," Dick says, "what is it that we're doing?"

"To be revealed," is Jason's haughty response, making Dick's other eyebrow shoot up to meet the first.

"I hope you know you're setting my expectations quite high," Dick tells him as they arrive on the ground floor, heading towards the front doors. "All this build up; it's so rarely worth the hype."

Jason sends Dick a charming grin, pushing out into the bright morning sun. "Dickie," he says, "you will find that I am _always_ worth the hype."

Dick laughs incredulously at the confident statement, shaking his head, but doesn't refute the claim, not yet. When this eventually crashes and burns, going horribly wrong, _then_ he will say how he knew this was doomed from the beginning.

There's a really nice motorcycle parked out front, and Jason heads right for it, swinging a leg over it and grabbing a helmet. Dick follows, and then accepts the helmet when it's offered to him, pulling it on while Jason grabs another one and does the same.

When Jason pats the leftover space of the seat and says, "Hop on!" Dick can't help but shake his head, lips curving in amusement.

"You're a stereotype," Dick tells him firmly, but still does as he's told, getting on the bike behind the vigilante. "And a cliché. Are you really trying _this?_ Points off, Jason."

Jason chuckles and starts the bike. "You are one suspicious bastard," he says, and kicks the kickstand back up. Dick slides forward a little and wraps his arms around Jason's waist, having no interest in flying off just to be petty. "You need to get out of your head. I think that's gonna be my mission next time; stop you thinking so much."

"Next time," Dick scoffs, and then they pull out onto the street, taking off.

Dick keeps tracks of the direction they're heading in, trying to narrow down where Jason might be taking him, but Jason is warm beneath his hands and his breathing steady and calming, and without his consent Dick finds his eyes sliding shut, his breathing slowing to match pace with the body in front of him, his pulse calming to match the heartbeat beneath his palm.

Goddammit. There's a reason riding on a motorcycle together is a cliché.

They begin to slow eventually, and Dick opens his eyes, leaning back to put some more space between them and then pulling away completely once they've stopped. He takes the helmet off, running a hand through his hair to fix it, and then glances around.

They're on the waterfront, upriver from the docks. There's a wooden bench a few feet away, with a large blanket spread out on the ground in front of it and a wicker basket off to the side.

Dick laughs a little, turning to grin at Jason. "A picnic?"

Jason shrugs a shoulder, heading over to the bench. "You ever been on one before?"

"No, because—" _shit like that is a waste of time,_ he stops himself from saying, because the thought doesn't quite sound like his own voice, but someone else's. "I—no. Have you?"

The other man settles on the blanket and looks back at him, squinting slightly. "Yeah, a couple times actually. Once when I was young, and then a few times in my teens, though those were a little different." He opens the basket. "Your turn."

Dick walks over, examining the setup, and then sits down across from Jason. "My turn?"

"To share something about yourself," Jason says, pulling things out of the basket. Sandwiches, sodas, chips, and some plastic utensils and paperware. "That's how this works, you know. It's a conversation."

"And what is...this?"

Jason's movements pause, and he sighs, then sits back and looks Dick in the eye. "Okay, uh, to be honest, I'm not good at this thing either. I mean normally in a relationship _I'm_ the one with the trust issues and an inability to connect." Dick blinks; _well then._ "I wasn't exactly raised by talk-about-your-feelings people. More like bury-your-feelings-and-they-can-never-be-used-to-hurt-you people. And I've been through a lot of shit that didn't change that.

"So I've really been bullshitting, Dick. I'm making this up as I go. Because I like you." Dick's breath catches. "I think you're brave and intelligent and clever and have a shit ton of issues in that pretty little head of yours, and it _is_ a pretty head. Dating as a mask is near impossible, because the secret identity will _always_ in some way be a point of conflict, and you and I have quite neatly side-stepped that.

"I'm hesitant too, okay? Life has taught me not to get invested too. But you know what else experience has taught me?" Jason smiles then, crooked and beautiful. "That there are so many risks absolutely worth taking."

It's been three years since Dick was in an actual relationship. He's been on a few dates, some that were even pretty nice, but really all he's done is get drunk enough to lower his inhibitions and go out to hook up with strangers. Dick does his best to not get invested in people. He's been taught to always have his guard up, to never let anyone see all your cards, and the _one time_ he let the rule slip away, he got burned. _Hard._ He's not in a rush to jump into something and experience that again.

Because the way Jason's talking, he is talking about being _something._ This isn't a "let's casually date" kind of conversation. This is a "you're fascinating and you think I'm fascinating too so stop being emotionally constipated" kind of conversation.

Dick doesn't like these kinds of conversation.

He opens his mouth, already preparing an excuse. This has been fun, he's scratched his fucking itch, but it's time for him to go. Any relationship is trouble, and with the Red Hood no less? No, not gonna happen. Never again like this.

Suddenly, an explosion rocks the ground, the air tensing as smoke and screams fill it. Both Dick and Jason are on their feet instantly, running in the direction of the smoke. As they pass Jason's bike he pauses briefly to grab something, and then is once more keeping pace with Dick, this time with his Red Hood helmet in his hands.

"Go back!" Jason shouts at him as he pulls on his helmet, and Dick just laughs, not dignifying that ridiculous order with a response.

They turn the corner and come upon an on-fire warehouse. Jason curses under his breath and grabs something out of his jacket, tossing it to Dick. Dick catches it from the air and frowns down at the strange device. Kind of like a muzzle?

"Put it on your face," Jason tells him, and all of the gentle awkwardness is gone, replaced by the powerful Red Hood, and Dick follows the instruction. "It'll protect you from smoke inhalation; if you insist on joining this party, I'm not letting you die of something that stupid."

Dick grins under the half-mask, making sure it reaches his eyes so Jason can see it, and then starts running forward again.

"What are you waiting for?" Dick shouts over his shoulder. "Injured civilians can't wait for your dilly-dallying!"

He can't hear Jason's response since the roar of the fire is so loud in his ears, but he's sure it wasn't something nice. The thought just makes Dick's smile widen.

But he's not smiling for long, because it's only a few seconds later that there's a rumble from inside the building, and then another, _larger_ explosion. It knocks Dick back from the force of it, sending him flying a few feet through the air. His head snaps back as he collides with the ground, and the mask skitters across the cement, ripped from his face.

Dick coughs, sucking in air, and figures he must be hallucinating the green tinge to the flames now coming out of the warehouse, a color that wasn't present a moment ago, before the second explosion. Is that—is there stuff in the air? Is he...? Did he hit his head, because he _swears_ it's not just the fire that's green, but there's something coming out of the warehouse, falling down around him...

His head is _floating._

"Grayson!" he hears faintly, and then there's someone leaning above him, but he can barely focus on whoever it is. He's starting to feel so warm, that's because of the fire, right? If it is, he can't complain; his entire body is tingling, every brush of his clothing against his body sending sparks down his spine. He can see stars behind his eyes and tilts his head, wanting to get a different view, and then gasps when that makes something scrap against the back of his neck, a delightful sensation.

"Fuck, Dick, come on, focus on me."

There are hands on his face, warm and calloused, and Dick leans into the touch, marveling at how much he can feel. The drag of skin is _amazing,_ just the right kind of rough, and his eyelids flutter, trying to enjoy it.

But the heat beneath his skin is getting hotter and hotter, getting almost painful, and he whines, twisting desperately.

"Goddamn Ivy," the person above him mutters angrily, and then he's being lifted into the air.

The vertigo of the sudden movement hits him hard, and actually clears his mind for a second. He blinks sluggishly, trying to figure out what's happening, and then looks up at the red helmet so close to his face.

"Jason," Dick mumbles, and the helmet jerks slightly, tilting to look at him. Dick's eyelids slide closed and then open again slowly. "What is this?"

"Some morons apparently decided to rob Poison Ivy," Jason says gruffly. They're moving quickly, but the jerky, jarring motions don't feel like a motorcycle or a car. Running? "They bit off more than they could chew and decided to just blow everything, but apparently didn't account for the fucking supplies she had inside!"

His voice raises angrily at the end, and Dick whimpers, curling more tightly against his chest. Every piece of him feels so much more sensitive, including his hearing.

"Is that what's happening to me?" Dick asks. Even though his stomach is rebelling against their current mode of transportation, Dick appreciates it for how it's helping to keep his head clear for the moment. "That—pollen stuff?"

"Yes," Jason says gruffly.

Dick lets out a little giggle. It's odd; all Gothamites know about Poison Ivy's weird toxins because she's used them in sections of Gotham before, but rarely do civilians get hit by it. Then again, he's probably proved lucky in that regard; about two years ago he and Ryan responded to a call that brought them to the scene of a recent fight against Poison Ivy, in order to help the people who'd gotten caught in the crossfire. Ryan had gotten a breath full of weird shit when he was giving someone CPR, and started getting really freaky really fast.

One of the Bats had passed by and stuck him with a needle, then the unconscious person, before moving on; going by the way Ryan had calmed down, it had been an antidote of some sort. Dick had just gotten off shift feeling kind of horny.

"Wow," Dick says, drawing out the syllables. _"Wow."_ Then he frowns, remembering the burning heat, how awful that felt getting bigger and bigger, how his heart right now feels like a literal match in his chest. "Wait, I thought this was just supposed to get people, y'know, _excited._ Why the fuck does it _hurt?"_

Jason mutters something under his breath Dick can't hear, and then they're slowing and stopping. He feels Jason shift, and then they're on something more solid, Jason adjusting his grip around Dick. A motorcycle engine roars to life.

"Jason," Dick tries again, voice hoarse.

Now that the jerky motions have changed into the smooth glide of a motorcycle and Jason takes off, his head is starting to drift again. The arm Jason has around him is tight like a steel bar, strong and steady, and Dick can't resist the urge to press against it, just to see how little it moves despite his efforts. He bites his lip, swallowing back a noise, and tilts his head back to see Jason's face. The sight that greets him is the red helmet, and for some reason it makes him terribly sad; he wants to press his lips to that strong jawline, wants to see what those eyes look like from up close—

Wait, he had a question. There was...something he wanted to know. No, something he _wants_ to know. There's a question he asked and didn't get an answer for.

"Jason," Dick says again, trying to be firm, tongue rolling in his mouth. He likes the way that feels, so he does it again. And again. And—

Fuck, wait, no, he's better than this. Breathe, Dick. Think. Get your shit together. Breathe.

_Count to four._

Dick digs his nails into his palms and focuses on that burst of pain for a moment, then runs through the breathing exercise. He ignores the physical pain, the heat that makes him feel on fire, the speed of his heart like it's going to fly out of his chest, the burning in his lungs like he inhaled black powder. They're just physical sensations. He's better than that.

_You're better than this._

Just physical sensations. Pain can be dealt with. Pain is always just in your head. There is always a more pressing concern.

Like a question he never got an answer to.

"Tell me why it hurts," Dick says. His voice shakes, but each word is clear and loud, and he knows Jason understands him. "Now."

"Ivy...she designed it to force people to act. A fuckin' rapist, really, but—" Jason cuts off and growls, fingers flexing where they're pressed against Dick. It makes Dick gasp, and Jason startles at the noise, clearing his throat. "It hurts because you're not, you know, uh, _doing_ stuff. With someone." He clears his throat again, and Dick wishes he could see if his cheeks are as bright red as Dick thinks they are.

"I have an antidote," Jason says firmly. "At my safehouse. We're almost there, okay?"

Dick doesn't reply, too caught up by the way Jason's fingers are clenching and relaxing rhythmically. He wonders if the other man is even aware he's doing it. Dick doesn't want to mention it, in case it makes him stop.

They pull to a sudden stop, and then they're moving again. Dick's concentration is slipping, his breathing sliding out of the even pattern as he's pressed more tightly to that broad chest. It makes all the other sensations come roaring back into focus, and he's too fucking warm, he needs these clothes off _now,_ he needs to be drenched in freezing water, he needs—

_He needs—_

Dick lets out a yelp as he's dropped out of Jason's arms and onto something that gives a little underneath him. Dick scratches his fingers over the material, testing, and gets lost in the sensation for a moment, before the painful burning under his skin makes itself known again.

With a groan, Dick twists, yanking his jacket off, then his shirt. It is an instant swell of relief, but not enough, not nearly enough, and he starts to wiggle, trying to push his pants down.

"Woah, hey, wait a minute, I've got the antidote right here, no need to take your pants off."

Jason swims into focus above Dick's head, lacking the helmet this time. Faintly, Dick notes the other man is holding a needle, flicking it with his finger in a way Dick knows has meaning, but can't think of at the moment.

"Jason," Dick groans, and Jason freezes for a moment, eyes wide. "I want—I _want—"_

"You're okay," Jason says, trying to soothe him, but his voice comes out shaky. "I-I need you to be still for a moment, okay? I need to stick this in you, and I don't want to hurt you."

Dick pauses, the moment feeling absolutely still, and then starts to giggle uncontrollably, clutching at his burning stomach. Jason watches him, dumbfounded, and Dick gasps out, "Yeah, Jay, stick it in me."

Jason's face goes bright red in a single moment, giving Dick what he'd wished to see before. He gapes at Dick for a moment, looking stunned, and then takes a firm grip on Dick's arm, pinning it in place. That makes Dick groan, the easy strength, the way his calloused hands dig in to the flesh of Dick's arm.

The pinch of the needle brings with it a rush of ice in his veins, and Dick falls limp, eyelids fluttering. Second by second the burning heat is taken over by cool water, his body practically melting into the couch beneath him.

"Oh," Dick breathes. "That's...better."

He hears Jason let out a relieved breath. "Good. I'm glad. You're feelin' okay?"

Dick nods drowsily. He feels floaty again, but it's a different kind, more like he has after surgery than that kind he felt after the explosion.

"Yeah," Dick says. "I...have work."

Jason chuckles and brushes Dick's hair back from his forehead. It feels nice, so Dick leans into the touch. "I'll send a message to your boss; you're in no shape to go save lives."

Dick just nods peacefully. "Okay. 'M tired."

"You can go to sleep," Jason tells him indulgently.

"Okay," Dick says again. "Guess you'll have to stick it in me another time."

Dick passes out to the sound of Jason spluttering, and a hand stroking soothingly through his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I'm sorry I know I said two chapters and now there'll be four but consider that I'm thoroughly unreliable~~  
>   
>  Is the prompt for this chapter bottom!Dick? Yes. Did no actual smut happen in this chapter? Also yes! But does Dick making jokes about Jason _sticking it in him_ count? Maybe. Welp, I can promise some smut next chapter! With lots of angst inside of it!


End file.
